The Priest's Assassin

by V. C. Willis

  “What do you mean?” She tried to retrieve her arm, but I refused her.

  “It’s probably the only thing Falco taught me that has any good use.” I pulled her dagger and broke the flesh.

  “Hey!” she hissed. “Are you mad?”

  “Wait for it.” I popped my thumb with my fang and ran my blood across her open wound.

  “N-no…” she panicked, kicking, and pulling.

  I let go, and she stumbled back. Glaring at her arm, she froze. Rubbing my thumb, I saw the cut was gone, and I waited to see if my speculation was correct. She held up her arm, bumping her fist. At last, she turned and punched a tree to assess the fortitude of her own flesh and bones.

  “What was that?” Red Wine closed the gap and shoved my chest, and I threw up my hands. “What would possess you to think that was a solution for healing?”

  “Look, Falco had some… questionable ways to express his love.” She grimaced. “He enjoyed tearing me up in the heat of passion and slowly healing my wounds in this way. Once, he told me a story of how the daemonis always have a way to heal one another, and on the battlefield, it works in a pinch, but with the Madness, the art was abandoned.”

  She stared at her healed arm, amazed. “All these years, I never knew…”

  “Glad I could teach you something for a change.” I pulled the claymore from the ground and returned to my stance. “Besides, I broke it. It’s my responsibility to make it right.”

  “I wonder if he knew about this, but the Madness...” She slipped the gauntlet on, buckling it. “I suppose now I can keep training you—just more efficiently now.”

  She closed the gap too fast, and a boot smashed into my face. This hit! My feet broke from the ground, and I slammed into the tree. The wind pressed out of me, yet I still managed to fall onto one knee with the help of the claymore. She stood at the ready with the longsword. Taking a deep breath, I rose to my feet. Falling into stance, it was my turn to charge forward. Up until now I’ve been taking defense. Time to see what this does as offense. Red Wine seemed faster, the swords lighting sparks in the night air. The clanging rung in my ears like metal wind chimes. She wasn’t this strong before. Is it my blood? Or was she sick and injured from… Winter’s Perch? Frank ran her out so…

  We broke away, both panting. “Tell me—this whole time, you’ve been injured.”

  Steam rolled out from under the mask. “You only just realized that?”

  “I take it Frank was to blame.”

  She ran hard to my left and kicked off a tree. The claymore blocked, my feet sliding in the mud and ice. I managed to switch my footing. She gasped, retreating. The swing had far more power, the force of wind it cast breaking snow from branches and making her stumble. A heat rose in my body, and I gave chase. She dipped and swung low. I launched to the air, spinning down on my descent to gouging the ground where she had been a moment before. I have enough power and strength to close the gap in what I lack in agility. Even leap to the air despite my size and the weight of the weapon… was that your secret Ashton? Pure power in every move you took? Or is there something she doesn’t even realize about what we are? Launching forward, I wasn’t going to give her time to think about outmaneuvering me anymore. I need her in defensive measures to make her create an opening…

  The clack and scrape of daggers hit my ears, and I slid to a stop. The claymore rose before me as throwing knives hit against the blade. Gritting my fangs, I knew she was getting desperate. I cut to her left when she shifted to accommodate my mimicking her side attack, and I dashed behind the pine. Her heart fluttered; she’s waning. If this was a real enemy, I at least know I can cut through the tree for a surprise attack but for her…

  Needing to pivot, I gripped the trunk to help redirect my weight and shot back out the other side I had vanished from. She caught me in her peripheral. That flutter again. It’s like doves taking flight… Another low swing with her sword. Jamming the claymore deep in the ground, I blocked, jarring her arms. Abandoning my weapon, my hand swallowed her face. Her grip on the sword failing, I swept a leg behind her feet to ensure no footing would remain. A dagger aimed to swipe. Too predictable. I heard her grip it. My other fist closed on the wrist, not too hard, and I slammed her to the ground with enough force to make her mask fly off and squeeze the air from her lungs.

  Blinking, she locked eyes with me. “What was that?”

  “You said I needed to learn to abandon the claymore in battle,” I offered, letting her go.

  “Not that.” Rolling to her feet, she began retracing the phases of the sparring grounds as if tracking our battle like small game. “You see this?”

  I followed her pointing, retracing my moves. There were indentations from where I stepped. On a few trunks, slash marks that I hadn’t physically placed there. She gripped my hand, pulling me behind the tree and planting my palm over—claw marks. I jerked it back, chasing my steps, remembering how it all felt.

  “I just—I could…” The power of each step, each strike unnerving. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “I have, though not to this caliber, Dante.” I met her gaze as she took it all end. “I thought for a moment you were going to kill me, then I realized you were pulling your moves after the first strike that…” she pointed to the slashes in the trees, “left the marks from the sheer force of the swing. That’s double the blade length. Wait, when did you feed last?”

  Swallowing, I hesitated before admitting, “Well, that depends on your definition of feed.”

  “Stop being so childish.” Lifting the longsword, I widened my eyes at the cracks and gouges. “When did you last truly feed? Wasn’t it last night? Other times you’ve just been flirting with stolen sips… through your kisses, no?”

  “How much do you know?” I fretted.

  “Only what I have learned watching you two.” She smiled to see me ruffled over the idea.

  “Last night. It’s only the third feeding ever.” I looked over the claymore, not a dent or scratch. “Preveran blacksmithing is incredible.”

  “Three,” she exasperated. “That can’t be right.”

  “Last night. Once during our stay in the castle, a month ago—”

  “A month ago? Dante, that can’t be right. A bloodeater is lucky to go three days or longer, and you were turned at the start of winter.”

  “I’ve been trying my damnest to resist,” I spat, insulted. “I love that man. He’s everything I ever wanted to be and couldn’t even be brave to do on my own. Not my fucking food.”

  Grabbing my shoulders, she shook me. “You’re not normal, Dante. Frank can’t last this long but Ashton… after he lost his source, he went centuries without. I don’t know why or what makes your bloodline so special, but this is not par the course for a bloodeater. This isn’t a change brought on by The Fanged Lady or the Madness.”

  “I know…” I muttered and sank to the ground. “I’ve been trying to find answers in the books for it. There’s nothing there. I was hoping in The Church’s Library I would have something old enough with hints of what is happening to me. See if I could get my hands on archaic materials from the Old Continent or written by the founding mothers of Grandmere.”

  “Who have you told about this?” Kneeling, she gave me a look of pity. “Who the hell knows about this?”

  “You. You’re the only one who knows.” I pained over the confession. Something is wrong. Why am I still changing beyond what makes me a bloodeater? Can I even stop this? “They just assume I feed on him constantly, but…”

  “Keep it hidden. Though, maybe Fallen Arbor… no, that’s out of the question, too risky. Perhaps the archives in Prevera? Maybe even The Court or the Old Ones might know something.” She was thinking out loud for the first time. Her heart raced in my ears. She’s frightened by this, too. “Frank might know. They told me stories of a time when Ashton had been a monster, angry and in
destructible so he could protect all that he loved… claws and fangs like a lion.” I gave her a baffled expression, and she shrugged. “They loved telling me fairytales about themselves and Ashton, though Ashton frowned over it. But Ashton had lost that part of him when the reason to be that way… John.”

  “What about John?” Fear rose in my core. “Don’t tell me he’s some special candy for bloodeaters.”

  “No, that’s not it, but…” Touching the scar on her face, she pondered in silence for a long time before offering, “maybe it’s the spiritual connection or something more ancient.”

  Snorting, I rose to my feet. “Now who’s telling the fairytales? Just let me know if you find any hints of what’s happening, and I’ll take to the books when I get to the city.”

  Why does my life keep taking these turns? And why do they come back to comparing me to a big brother I never knew existed other than hushed whispers and sour rumors? Fairy tales, indeed.

  Chapter 13

  Welcome to Leifseid

  It took us almost two days through the Farmlis Woods to reach Leifseid in the south. The forest had proved hard to navigate, the trees so large we had to take the horses around them until they could squeeze between the giant red columns. Regardless, my training with Red Wine continued as we both struggled to understand what my limitations were. My strength seemed ungodly in ways that would break lesser weapons. I had shattered Valiente’s spare longsword, and it unnerved the Lord Knight when he speculated about how it could have happened. It shouldn’t happen at all…

  “I still can’t figure out…” started Valiente, anger rising in his voice as we rode down the beaten path Red Wine had found.

  “Here he goes again. I’m so sorry.” Princess Sonja covered her face.

  “… first, how this one stole a weapon literally off of me.”

  Red Wine ignored his rant once more. He had tried discussing the matter earlier in the day, but everyone had feigned too busy packing up camp to hear him out.

  “Second, explain to me how you shatter a blade made for the king’s personal royal guard.”

  “Preveran steel is far more superior,” I repeated as rehearsed.

  “But there’s not a mark on that wall you call a sword.” Valiente riled further, his voice growing louder with his growing list of complaints. “And worse, she put it back on me, and I would have been none-the-wiser if I hadn’t been vigilant and aimed to clean my blade.”

  “If you were so diligent, why didn’t you notice the night it had the notches and cracks put into it?” I asked, smirking. “Roughly four nights ago, I think?”

  “You stole it on more than one occasion!” He shifted in the saddle to glare back at me, and Colonel whinnied his complaint at the sudden weight shift.

  “Besides, I thought you discovered it…” John had that sparkle in his eyes.

  Oh, here we go. He can’t resist a chance to unravel someone.

  “…when Sonja asked what all that jingling sound was when we started out this morning,” he finished.

  “That’s right. I thought I heard a loose coin purse somewhere,” agreed Sonja, giggling. “You insisted it was just armor clinking about. Not coming from your sheath as I had pointed out.”

  “How was I supposed to know it was my damn sword!” roared Valiente.

  “Shame on you for not trusting in Mother Superior’s words,” tsked John.

  “You owe me a new sword.” He pointed back at me, and Colonel nodded his head.

  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t replace it when the opportunity arose.” I laughed, riding past him. “Does Leifseid have trustworthy smiths? Did you want to pick one, or am I buying whatever I deem worthy?”

  Valiente trotted to ride parallel to me. “I’ll let you pick. Then I get to brag the Blood Prince gifted it to me.”

  “Really, Valiente. That’s going to be your reason?” Sonja scowled. “Extortion is an unsightly trait for a knight.”

  “Extortion!” he gaped.

  “Now, now, Mother Superior…” John put on his best priestly tone, and I couldn’t contain the smile growing on my face. “We must pray for him to rise above his shortcomings.”

  Valiente narrowed his eyes at the chuckling clergymen. “I hope you both burn in hell for being imposters.”

  I leaned in. “If I recall, they did do the training and studies, did they not? How far you have fallen to wish harm over the clergymen you have sworn to protect, Lord Knight Valiente.”

  “Not another word from you.” He shoved me away. “Just replace the damn thing.”

  We made it around the bend, and there sat a wagon full of logs. The old man stood on the road, scratching his head with a frown for the wheel that had broken loose. His workhorse seemed just as old and worn out as he was, still hooked to the shaft of the wagon. John stopped and hopped off his horse without hesitation. The smile on his face was enough to make me pull on my reins. This is the side of John I’ve been missing out on all this time. That desire to help any stranger, including a runaway prince sitting on a boulder in the dead of winter. Basque’s muscles twitched and he danced, excited to see a loaded wagon. Patting the side of his neck, I decided to join the conversation.

  “Look Father, I don’t think anyone can help me unless we unload the wagon. The great red pines here weigh a lot more than those shrubs you call trees in Captiva City.” The tone of the old logger brought a smile to my face as nostalgia rolled through me. “My horse was struggling, and he didn’t steer enough in time. It’s my fault I overloaded it. Though I’d appreciate a ride into town to get help.”

  Squatting, I was pleased to see the wheel was intact. “Boxing slipped out?”

  “Y-yeah.” He seemed startled by my sudden appearance. “You’re quiet for as big as you are, boy. Wait, isn’t that a Guild mask?” He paled. “Look, I don’t want any trouble...”

  “Relax,” John’s cheerful tone and a firm grip on the logger’s shoulder made him wince. “He’s my personal guard, sir. Simply let us get you back up. We’ll take you and the wagon into town. How about that?”

  “I hate to spoil this for you, Father, but you do know they’re traditionally all daemons. Your bodyguard.” He knocked John’s hand off his shoulder, insulted by my presence.

  Ignoring the comment, I kept true to my aim and asked, “Do you have the boxing?”

  “I always carry spares,” he scoffed, insulted by the question. “What do you take me for? A yearling axe cutter?”

  “No sir, just never know if you’re out or lost them somewhere.” I stood looking at the overloaded wagon and tuckered out horse. “I’ll tell you what: my horse needs to burn off some energy.” The old man glances at Basque where he danced and curled his lips at his own horse in anticipation. “Can he pull the load the rest of the way and give the old gelding a chance to recover?”

  “Yeah, sure, soon as the wheel is on...” Rolling his eyes, the sarcasm in his voice did him no justice. “I suppose you have a means to solve that one, too. You gonna pray to the almighty spirits and saints to show up and fix it themselves, Father? Raise this wagon up with the biggest load of red pines, wet from spring?”

  John smiled, snatching the boxing from him. “I’ll put the wheel on myself.” He shed his coat and collar and handed them to Mother Superior Sonja. “Hold these for me.” Spinning back, he rolled up his sleeves and lifted the wheel up. “Da-Ashton, you sure about this?”

  Inhaling deep, I took one more thorough look of the wagon’s axles. “Well, it seems he got lucky thanks to the soft mud. Just a simple boxing slip. Axles are in good order.” Standing, I gripped under the edge of the wagon and pulled just enough to make the load groan. “Unlatch the gelding, just in case the load shifts.”

  The old man scrambled over to the task, Valiente sliding off his own horse to assist. Basque had pranced close behind, nudging the knight to hook him up and snorting the geldin
g out of the way. I whistled and the horse went back into attention. It seems we are both itching to burn off some energy. This is impossibly heavy, but I can’t help but feel…

  “I can lift it for a short time if I put my legs and back into it.” Looking over the load, I could see a spot on the side that would give John enough room for his task. “But I can’t lift too high, or the load might roll and that would need a few more hands.”

  “Right.” John avoided meeting my gaze and gave no rebuttal. “Everyone, step back.”

  Crouching, I leaned low against the wagon. It took a few tries to get my feet to find a place where they wouldn’t slip in the mud. My arms strained behind me, fingers gripping the edge. I met John’s gaze, and he wiggled the wheel as close as he could. The boxing hung from his mouth. He had found a wooden mallet and had it in hand as he turned the spokes to line up with the wedge. At last, I waited for his signal. He froze and, in a flash, a nod of his head was all I needed.

  With a roar, I clenched my eyes tight and focused on the wagon’s weight and my body. My feet threatened to slide until the wagon began to tilt behind me. A log shifted, and the muscles in my arms screamed with a fiery burn. I could hear the gasps of the onlookers but had no time to focus on who muttered what. Instead, my ears strained. The scuff signaled the wheel was slid into place and the skid of the boxing wedged at the joint was followed by tapping. Frantic, John broke in a sweat. He’s worried. The mallet beat the boxing into place, fast and steady, matching the beat of my heart as adrenaline raced through me. My back ached, but the use of my muscles and stinging in my thighs and shins were a warm welcome from the training. I miss this sort of simple labor… I miss us being simple…

  John backed away, speaking in a hushed manner so I could only hear, “Now, Dante, but slow, or the wheel will break from that height.”

  I opened my eyes. Cursing under my breath, I had lifted too high, but by some luck hadn’t rolled the load off. Dammit, this should have hurt more… When the wagon settled down, I ignored the paling faces of the old man and my companions. Only Red Wine seemed unmoved, her heartbeat unchanged among the fluttering birds that pounded around us. Basque was more than willing to let me hook him to the shaft. He was almost too big for the buckles, tight and pulling on the last hole in the line.